“Who are these people?”
“You know Phil . . . he’s the Frontier Marshal . . .”
The young teen shyly glanced over her shoulder, finding Phil still standing there. Her eyes next flashed to Gallic.
“This is Mr. Gallic. He’s investigating . . . what happened next door. He’d like to ask you only a few questions. Would that be okay, dear?”
“I don’t know anything,” her daughter replied, her head lowered, her voice barely audible.
“Then just tell him what you do know,” Linda said. She looked at Gallic with a stare that instructed be kind to my daughter or you’re gone.
“Hi Juaquin, that’s a great name you have.”
“Thanks.”
“Your mom tells me the last time you saw Tami and her mother was when they were out for a ride. Can you tell me a little about that?”
Scowling, Juaquin’s head spun around. She stared at her mother. A typical teenage gesture that said—that is not the last time I saw them.
Linda waved her hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t remember what she had for breakfast. Remember, Juaquin, they were out in the pasture. Tami was walking her horse . . .” Linda stared at her daughter—her eyes laser beams.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” the girl replied softly, her gaze back to staring at the carpet.
“Do you remember what Tami and her mother were wearing that day?” Gallic asked.
Juaquin glanced at her mother before answering then simply shook her head. Studying the teen, Gallic took in the way she was dressed. White designer jeans, patterned with large black symbols—Asian letters haphazardly positioned up and down her legs. Pink high-tops, looking as if they’d just popped out from a new shoebox, and a snap-down plaid shirt that not only matched her pink shoes, but also the dyed patch of pink hair in her long bangs. The girl was a young fashionista. No way she hadn’t noticed what Tami was wearing, as well as her mother’s outfit too. The real question was why was she lying? The better question—why was her mother forcing her to do so?
“Let me ask you this, Juaquin. Did Tami mention anything that seemed out of the ordinary to you lately? Anything at all?”
Almost imperceptibly, her eyes momentarily widened—some inner thought unconsciously expressing itself. She looked to her mother then replied, “I don’t really want to talk anymore. Can I go to my room now?”
“Of course, dear. Say goodbye to Mr. Gallic and Phil.”
Waiting for her first to leave the room, Linda stood then said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you both to leave. This is all too upsetting.”
“Fine. Let me ask you one more thing. What does your husband do for a living?”
“Rick? He’s an attorney though primarily works as an agent.”
“What kind of agent?”
“For the entertainment business. High-profile actors and directors . . . that sort of thing.”
* * *
Gallic, finished questioning both Linda and her daughter, thought little new had been revealed. It was obvious certain information had been withheld. More than once, Juaquin looked to her mother before answering.
“That’s why you don’t interview potential suspects together,” Phil said, standing outside on the driveway.
“There was no way I was going to be granted that option, Phil. I was lucky to get even those few minutes with her. Look, I don’t think anyone around here had anything to do with the murders. With that said, still something’s going on,” Gallic said.
“We need to talk to the husbands. I know them both. How about I work that end . . . get interviews set up over the next few days.”
“I’d appreciate that. I still have a few other loose ends to tie up. Maybe take advantage of the lull in the case.”
“Repo work?” Phil asked, and Gallic nodded back.
“I’ll catch you later then. Thanks for . . .” pointing to his head, “keeping me alive.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Gallic watched Phil head off toward the distant Gallivanter. It took the older Frontier Marshal time to amble across the pasture and disappear into the ship. A minute or two later, the craft’s under-wing thrusters engaged, and the vessel began to rise.
Chapter 14
Frontier Planet, Gorman — Heritage Plains Township.
Back in the Hound, Gallic, with reluctance, went to work reviewing the earlier information sent over by Polly Gant concerning the missing Hayai spacecraft. His heart wasn’t in it. He was a Frontier Marshal first and foremost, and he had a murderer to catch. Still, the last time he checked repo side work paid the bills.
Sitting at his desk within the study, he replaced the projected murder board with the Imperial Bail Bonds & Repos’ missing Hayai case files. With a hand motion, a past holographic interview of Allison Tillman began to play. Attractive, mid-thirties, the businesswoman spoke with an air of confidence. Gallic wondered if it derived from personal successes over her short career, or if it came from her astounding family wealth. He wondered if she had never been denied anything. Her on-screen presence was impressive to watch. Her glossy lipstick the same shade as her ruby-red silk blouse and her platinum blonde hair feathered and teased to appear naturally wind-tousled; a look that probably took hours to achieve at the salon. Allison Tillman was certainly beautiful, but there was something a tad too perfect about her looks. Almost like the young executive had been pre-packaged in a design factory.
Gallic listened as she described her family’s exquisite, personal, spacecraft collection. Some were antiques, while some possessed state-of-the-art technology. A few were military vessels—kept on display, at their invitation-only pseudo museum, on the top floor of their corporate offices. She spoke about the collection, ships varying in size and shape, as if they were dear family members. Ships that, at one time or other, belonged to the ultra-famous—either from the entertainment or political sector. Or ships that were in some unique way most remarkable, like the early prototype vessels utilizing alien Curz propulsion technology. These were the Model T’s of the twenty-second century. The more Polly Gant spoke about the collection, the more Gallic thought he’d enjoy seeing the eclectic mishmash in person.
She spoke as though all others should relate to having a multi-billion dollar collection, such as theirs. And as if what had taken place was more akin to a kidnapping than to elaborate grand-scale theft.
Gallic checked the time on his ComsBand. Polly had set up a pre-arranged, interactive interview for him with Allison. Now, having gained sufficient background on both the company and Polly, he felt somewhat more comfortable doing a one-on-one.
The Hound’s AI softly announced: “Your requested CoreNet channel has been established. Allison Tillman is awaiting your activation.”
“Fine, I’m ready . . . go ahead,” Gallic said.
The holographic display instantly filled with Allison Tillman’s slim upper body. In the background, slightly out-of-focus, were a number of personal, high-end spacecraft. She’d positioned herself within the museum proper. Was that more for his benefit or for hers? Gallic wondered, briefly catching the distinctive outline of a Hausenbach L35T.
“Ah . . . there you are! The Galaxy Man, himself, I’ve heard so much about,” Allison said with good humor.
Gallic fought the urge to roll his eyes at the mere mention of his ridiculous moniker. “Ms. Tillman. It’s good to meet you.”
“Well, Polly tells me if anyone can find our stolen baby, it’s you. You come highly regarded, Mr. Gallic.”
“You can just call me Gallic . . . everyone does.”
“And you can call me Allison. Shall we get down to it? I still have a wicked amount of work to get to today.”
Her lipstick no longer colorfully matched a red silk blouse. In fact, there was no blouse. Instead, she now wore a crisp white button-down shirt under a gender-neutral business suit. Although one of the stripes in her peach-colored necktie did in fact match her lipstick.
“
By all means,” he said. “First, I’d like to discuss your security—”
Allison, interrupting him, began to speak: “Look . . . our security measures are the very best money can buy. Military-grade, of course. You are aware of our government contracts division . . . I’m sure.”
“I am.”
“Well, whoever took the craft somehow disabled our five-time redundancy security protocols. Virtually the same measures presently used to protect the new U.S. Pentagon. And before you speak about the theft being an inside job, rest assured, we’ve internally investigated that prospect ad nauseam.”
“You’re telling me you want me to . . . what? Ignore any internal company investigation? To concentrate primarily on—”
Again, she stepped all over his words. “That’s right! There will be no internal personnel investigation. Period.”
Gallic let out a breath, already hating this gig. But she was the client. If she didn’t want him poking around her company, her people, then so be it. The big problem—he wouldn’t get paid if he didn’t find the Hayai before someone else did. “I can certainly concentrate my efforts on pursuing known spacecraft thieves. Make the rounds to chop shops in relatively- near space.”
“Well, that sounds like a good start,” Allison said. “You’re the expert, not me.”
“Still . . .” he replied, “I’d like to review your security vids. Bring in a fresh pair of eyes and all.”
Allison studied him, as if she wanted to admonish him for returning to an already closed subject.
“I won’t release that sort of thing over the CoreNet. It’s completely unsecure.” She pursed her lips, appraising him. “You’ll need to come to Spector . . . view the security feeds in person. But that’s as far as it will go. No internal investigation.”
Gallic inwardly groaned. He didn’t like Spector—a city and planet that shared the same name. Spector was a frantic-paced metropolis, with too many people in a too-confining space. For a man his size, it was like forcing a size twelve foot into a size ten shoe. Also, it would take him an entire day’s jaunt just to get there.
“Let me ask you another question? How many Frontier Marshals have asked for museum access?”
“You are only the second.”
“I see. Um . . . okay, getting back to the Hayai. Before I get there . . . can you give me a bit more background on the ship itself? Perhaps provide me some perspective on why that one craft was appropriated when all those behind you were not.”
Allison stared at him blankly then fluttered her eyelids in such a way she resembled an android accessing data. “The Hayai is a third-generation prototype. The relatively sporty-sized spaceship, like all other crafts created over the last century, utilizes the same alien Curz propulsion technology, to some degree. But the Hayai is a vast improvement over that tech. An artificial, minuscule in size black hole is projected near, actually well past, its event horizon. Now, due to quantum physics limitations that we—and all others—have no control over, there was only so much our engineers could do to improve performance. Namely, breaching higher end FTL limitations. Still, some ingenious cheats were implemented by our own people. The Hayai propulsion system is like none other . . . I assure you.” Nodding to herself, she took a deep breath. “Without delving into top secret waters, I can tell you we now use a different propellant. Fissure Nine radiation, which creates a steadier electromagnetic effect. One million tons of negative mass is used. And finally, we’ve incorporated a brand-new gamma laser. But I cannot go into further detail on that subject.”
Gallic understood very little of what she’d just discussed with him. His astonishment wasn’t so much about the technical information he’d been bombarded with but that Alison—obviously brilliant—did know what she was talking about.
As if reading his mind, she said, “This job wasn’t handed over to me by chance or perhaps nepotism gone awry, as you’ve probably surmised, Mr. Gallic. In addition to being an engineer—five years spent at MIT—I’m a physicist in my own right. As company president, and CEO of Tillman Enterprises, it helps when one understands what we’re manufacturing.” She then went silent, waiting for Gallic’s response.
“I’ll be underway, within the hour,” he affirmed.
Chapter 15
Deep Space — On board the Hound — en route to Spector
With Muleshoe 700 million miles behind him, Gallic—standing at the control center—waited for another CoreNet channel connection, to one channel over—D-22.
“I have established your requested channel, Mr. Gallic.”
“Go ahead and put the superintendent through, AI.”
The virtual image of Superintendent Bernard Danbury now stood before him within the projected vertical display. “Glad I caught you, Superintendent. Must be close to what . . . 7:30 there?”
“Yeah . . . it’ll be another late night,” Danbury replied, sounding resigned to the fact. “There’s still no shortage of felonious behavior in District 22, John. Today is no exception, with eighteen murders, twenty-two rapes, and nine abductions. Those numbers don’t include frontier space either . . . out in your neck of the woods. That could double those numbers . . . easily.”
Gallic’s old boss looked tired and beaten, showing signs of hopelessness not evident days before. Perhaps he’d just caught him at a particularly bad moment.
“So, what can I do for you, John?”
“As requested, I just wanted to update you. I’m sure this will be a repeat of what Sergeant Tori’s given you. Tori worked the crime scene . . . did a fine job. A lot of evidence was collected. Be interesting to hear back what Forensics has to say. We also spoke with the neighbors, Linda Cugan and her daughter. In my opinion, they are hiding something. To what extent, I’m not sure yet. It needs to be followed up on.”
Danbury said, “You need to nix all further contact with Mrs. Cugan, also with her daughter.”
“Nix? Why? Look . . . there’s something there; something’s off.”
“Do I need to remind you, John, this is not your case—that you are no longer a D-22 DCI? This is becoming a much higher-profile case than I’d like. In the future, all interviews relating to it will be conducted solely by Sergeant Tori.”
“What’s changed? Why all the stonewalling?”
Irritation flashed in Danbury’s eyes. “There’s been a registered complaint.”
“By Mrs. Cugan?”
Wearily, Danbury shook his head. “By her husband. She must have sounded off to him, and he put an official complaint into D-22.”
“Since when do we cater to a suspect’s needs when investigating a murder?”
“Mrs. Cugan, and certainly not her daughter, isn’t a suspect. So, drop it. Tori will be arriving back at Gorman tomorrow. Take a step back, and let her perform her job.”
Gallic shrugged, holding back what he wanted to say.
“It’s probably a copycat murder. We’ve both seen them before . . . with other cases. It’s not the hammer-and-nails killer,” Danbury said.
“You’re probably right,” Gallic said.
Giving an exhausted half-smile, Danbury said, “Let’s talk in a few days. Try to stay out of trouble, John.” The feed then went black.
Hours later, the Hound returned to the worlds of Alpha Centauri. Gallic stared at the approaching cluster of twinkling lights. This time he’d traveled close to 5.6 light years distance, and his body felt it. Space-lag was an issue Interstellar travelers had to learn to deal with. An effect that really kicked in once one entered a given world’s atmosphere, with its own unique time continuum properties. Bypassing Rawlings City, Grimes252, Gallic navigated in closer to the red dwarf star, Proxima Centauri, where the planet Spector was situated. Like Rawlings City, Spector was a planet where big business took place. The only difference, Spector was privately owned by a consortium of prominent U.S. and European families; families like the Tillman’s. A beautiful world—modern technology and architecture melded together perfectly—within an undisturbed, des
ert-like ecosystem.
Slowing, the Hound’s two gravitorque drives changed their vibrational cadence.
“Entering Spector high orbit, Mr. Gallic,” the AI said.
Gallic fought back a yawn. “Take us in, AI. Submit the necessary flight plans into Harriot,”
Harriot, the name of the actual city on this small world, was where Tillman Enterprises resided. Somewhere in the past, Gallic learned that it was the namesake of a sick Tillman child, who’d died a century earlier. Gallic never had the opportunity to visit the city before. By invitation only, the unique world maintained its own small military faction—one that took protection of its inhabitants very seriously.
“We have been granted permission to enter Sirius, specifically Harriot airspace, Mr. Gallic.”
But Gallic’s attention was already drawn toward two sleek Strife 5 attack ships, which suddenly appeared on the Hound’s port and starboard wingtips. Some genuine firepower there, he observed
An unfamiliar male voice, breaching the Hound’s internal coms channel, spoke with deliberate, if not hostile, intent. “Vessel, with designation Hound, will change course on vector 53.934, reduce velocity by one-third, and drop down to a matching altitude.”
Gallic said, “You got that, AI?”
“Yes, Mr. Gallic,” the AI replied.
Below, the surface of Spector came into view. A striking planet, the rocky—mostly scrub and rock—landscape was in varying shades of blue. It was like viewing a world through blue-tinted sunglasses. Bright reflections glimmered off high-rise buildings; up ahead, Tillman city.
Again, the same male voice filled the compartment: “Proceed to the provided set-down coordinates on building 6AA. Do not veer from your current approach vector.” And with that the two Strife 5 attack ships were gone.
There were about sixty buildings in all, of varying heights. Cylindrical in shape, they were glass-paneled and beautiful. What differentiated this little city from others Gallic encountered was that all the buildings—in fact, the entire city—were contained within a great circle of water. Each building sat within the huge artificial lake or reservoir. The water was the only visual aspect not a shade of blue. It was violet.
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